（Almost） Simulated Date and Other Professional Errors
Cohen
Last session before my “forced break” for work.
Sloane called it a simulated real date.
I'd call it the most effective way to make me think about everything except this weekend's game.
It took me a ridiculously long time to decide what to wear.
A button-down shirt? It felt more like a date than "date prep" in her office.
A T-shirt? Too sloppy.
In the end, I opted for a black sweater.
I already regret it. I pull the collar away a bit, feeling suffocated as I approach her door. And I’m ridiculously hot.
Why the fuck is my heart rate spiking?
Damn it, I need to get it together.
When I enter her office, she’s already there.
Notebook in hand, pen ready, with the look of a woman who has no intention of putting up with my bullshit.
She’s wearing a cream-colored dress, simple but… it’s not.
The kind of dress that makes you forget grammar and the very concept of "professionalism."
The fabric hugs her hips, her legs are crossed, and her heel taps rhythmically against the floor.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The countdown to my self-destruction.
She’s set the scene: two glasses of water, an amber candle, soft playlist on low.
“Becker,” she says, without even looking up. “Thank you for being on time.”
“I know discipline turns you on,” I reply, sitting across from her and wiggling my eyebrows for emphasis. Of course, she doesn’t appreciate it.
“Cohen.”
“Sloane.”
She finally looks up, and that look says don’t start.
Too late.
“So?” I ask, with a half-smile. “What’s the program? Do you teach me how to keep the napkin on my lap or how to fake interest when a girl talks to me about astrology?”
“And you teach me how to avoid strangling a client? Or how to bury a body without getting caught?” she counters, icy.
Perfect.
She’s perfect when she pretends she doesn’t want to slap me.
She sighs. Making her sigh like that is my favorite sport.
Then she straightens up and opens her folder. “Good. I remind you that the purpose of this exercise is to test your listening and interaction skills. Pretend you’re having dinner with a woman, try to get to know her, be kind, relaxed, and…”
“Charming?” I try to anticipate her answer with a small grin.
“Less Cohen Becker.” She rolls her eyes at the ceiling.
“I’m just telling the truth. Lies aren’t sexy.”
“Neither is your arrogance.”
“Apparently not enough to make you stop staring at me.”
Yes, Sloane, I noticed you can’t take your eyes off me either.
The way she blushes is almost imperceptible, but I see it. Then she’s all serious and professional again.
“It’s a date simulation,” she continues. “The goal is to assess your listening, empathy, and communication skills. I will play a candidate on a first date. You… behave like a normal person.”
I hate how quickly she composes herself. I hate her self-control.
Let’s see if I can make her lose it…
“Oh, I like role-playing.”
I swear I almost burst out laughing in her face seeing her expression. I can read it clearly: amusement and interest, mixed with a very real urge to torture me and then kill me.
She arranges the notebook next to the glass of water.
I look at her, then look away because my thoughts are definitely not chaste.
I want to taste her again and again…
I compose myself in the chair. I lower my voice. “Let’s restart. Nice to meet you, I’m Cohen. I’m in rehab… for my personality.”
A wrinkle softens between her eyebrows. “That was almost nice.”
“I’m making progress. Don’t get used to it.”
She wets her lips absentmindedly and adjusts her pen. That tiny movement short-circuits my brain.
Those lips…
“I’ll start over. What do you like to do when you’re not playing?”
I blink to focus on what she just said.
“Running by the lake at dawn. There’s… peace, quiet. No one talks, no one watches what I do. The cold in my hands puts me back in order.”
Sloane tilts her head, surprised.
Silence falls for a while. But it’s… good silence.
I hear the background music change track, a piano whispering. Outside, the afternoon settles into a warm orange glow.
I don't know what happens inside me, but it's like I enter a trance. I end up in that dimension where I was that night at The Aureum club. That dimension where I only ended up with Sloane.
I get up slowly, walking around the desk.
She follows me with her eyes, a little confused, a little on the verge of snapping.
“What are you doing?” Her voice trembles a little, but she's terribly good at staying composed.
I, on the other hand… could pass out.
“We’re simulating a date, aren’t we?”
“Yes, but—”
“Dates aren’t conducted ten feet apart.”
I stop next to her.
The air thickens.
She inhales softly, and for the first time since I've known her, she doesn't speak.
She seems to be assessing the situation. She lowers her gaze, then raises it.
“Alright,” she finally says, almost whispering. Now that I have permission, I sit closer to her. I watch her swallow, then she continues. “Let’s proceed. Do you have a pre-game ritual?”
I give a crooked half-smile. I’ve been asked this a hundred times, but… I’ve never actually answered. I’ve never answered anything, if we’re being honest.
Wasn't it obvious that I hate interviews? Journalists? And everything that comes with it…
But Sloane isn't one. Strangely, I like talking to her. Yes, I love pissing her off even more… but that’s another story. “Left sock before the right. I know, ridiculous.”
She smiles, genuinely. “It’s not. I align the pens on my desk.”
I look at the pens, perfect.
Then our eyes meet, and we both smile.
Then… the magic shatters.
Her hands intertwine on the notepad, her fingers slender, her nails polished and shiny.
Professionalism has crept back on her like armor. But underneath… I feel her moving.
“Okay, Cohen. Now you ask a question.”
I lean forward a little. I almost brush against her. But that’s enough to send a shiver through my entire body.
I want more…
I inhale to pull myself together. Big mistake. Her scent invades my senses, and I can't think straight anymore.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from jumping her.
To keep from stripping that ridiculously sexy dress off her and making her mine, right here, on her office desk.
Get a grip, Cohen. Get. A. Grip.
Where were we? Oh right, the question.
“Why did you choose this job?” A predictable question. Stupid. Now I'm the one who sounds like I'm at an interview.
But my synapses can't put anything together that isn't the image of Sloane, naked and spread open for me on this desk.
“Because I like putting the pieces back together. I like seeing people do better, find a real connection…” she pauses, uncertain. “I like the order that comes after the chaos.”
“And the chaos?” If she only knew all the chaos I have inside right now…
“I avoid it.”
“Too bad. It has its own charm.” I make a small face with my mouth.
A beam of light catches her profile. I could laugh at the fact that I'm noticing a beam of light, if I weren't busy reminding myself that I need to pull it together and stop desperately wanting to screw my coach's daughter.
“Okay,” she says, recovering her CEO tone. “I’d say that as a simulation, we did better than expected. You showed listening, eye contact, no inappropriate jokes for at least…” she pretends to count, “ninety seconds.”
“Personal record.”
She doesn’t laugh.
She looks at me.
And for the first time, I can't read that look.
It’s as if she’s trying to figure out when, exactly, she lost control of the situation.
Perhaps at the exact moment I lost it.
“I think we can stop here,” she says softly—but she doesn’t move.
Her body remains tilted toward me, her crossed leg brushing mine.
The air gets thicker.
The candle on the corner of the desk flickers, casting golden reflections on her skin.
“Sloane,” I call her name.
She barely looks up, but can’t meet my gaze for more than a second.
“What is it?”
“Why are you always so tense after we finish a session?”
“I’m not tense.”
“Of course, you are. Your jaw is locked, your breath is shallow, and your hands are gripping that pen like it’s a weapon.”
She drops it immediately.
“See? Correct diagnosis,” I smile.
“You are unbearable.”
“Hmm… yeah, the truth can be sometimes.”
Her breathing changes. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s there.
As if every pulse of air in the room pushes her a little closer to me.
“Cohen, don’t ruin everything right now.”
“Who said I’m ruining it?”
I lean in slightly, and she tenses up.
My knee brushes hers.
Her gaze flicks between my eyes and my mouth, then locks onto me again.
“We’re not… really on a date.”
“Oh no? Because I kind of like to be remembered afterward. Shouldn’t you get the full package for your evaluation?”
I move closer again, the heat of our bodies merging.
“Cohen,” she whispers.
“Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll leave.”
She doesn't answer.
Just a small movement of her throat as she swallows.
Her fingers tap on her knee, then stop.
I lean down, slowly, my voice low, close to her ear.
“Hey… relax. It’s just a simulation, right?”
She laughs. A nervous laugh.
A small, incredulous sound that hits me right in the gut.
Then she gets serious again and looks at me, irritated. “Yeah, and you’re my client. And one of the worst I’ve ever had.”
If I weren’t so turned on, I might start laughing and never stop. Only Sloane Heart could react like this at a moment like this.
She wets her lips again. Her breath stutters, and I know—absolutely know—that all this composure is a lie.
“I don’t think you’ll still consider me the worst after this date simulation,” I murmur against her ear.
She doesn't pull away. She remains in the chair, motionless.
“I’m asking you one last time, Angel. If you stop me now, I'll leave, otherwise it will be too late.”
She inhales.
But she doesn’t speak.
I give her a little more time. To reconsider. To evaluate. Fuck, I hope she doesn’t.
The clock ticks a few times. I move my hands a little closer to her again, and when enough time has passed to understand that I have permission, I grab her with more decision.
I rest my hands on her legs. Then I grasp her knees and open them wide.
Her eyes look up at mine, they stay there. Still.
Choosing.
Her hands, previously clenched into fists, slide down her legs. A small gesture, but enough to let me know she won't stop me.
Christ.
Every fiber of my body tenses, as if it has finally received the signal it was waiting for.
I get off the chair and kneel on the floor, between her legs. I look up at her.
She's staring at me. Her lips are parted.
“Tell me no,” I whisper. “One word is all it takes.”
But that word doesn’t come.
Instead, her gaze arrives—direct, full, determined.
I slide my fingertips under the hem of her dress and go straight to her center.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
She's not wearing underwear. I could die right here and now, but the only thing holding me back is the compelling, forbidden desire to make Sloane Heart lose control.
“You are fucking wet, Angel. You’re a liar, you were waiting for this.” I move my finger on her clit, torturing her.
“I. Hate. You.” She hisses through gritted teeth.
“Oh yeah? You’ll hate me even more when we’re done. You’ll think about me the whole time I’m gone, you won’t be able to help it.” I smile and slip a finger inside her wet slit.
I love torturing her; I love feeling her so ready for me.
“Shut your mouth, Becker.” She glares at me but can’t hold back a moan when I slide in a second finger.
“No, I think I can use it in a better way.”
I lean down and put my head between her legs. Definitely yes, I can use it in better ways.
My favorite? On her beautiful, wet pussy.
I take a first lick, and her taste is exactly as I imagined: sweet as honey, irresistible as the worst sin.
Sloane gasps, and I grip her ass with my hands, pushing her closer to me and enjoying my feast.
I hear her groan with her mouth closed. She’s still trying to hold back.
Defiant. Little. Brat.
I lick again and suck. Her legs tremble as she strains to stay still.
I continue with my movements, getting more and more intense. I know she wants me more; I know she wants to clamp her legs over my head to push me deeper. And I also know she doesn't want to admit it, she doesn't want to let me win.
But I’m enjoying the best honey I’ve ever tasted, so I’ve already won.
Her moans turn into gasps. I meet her gaze without taking my mouth off her pussy.
Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted, an expression of ecstasy.
She’s beautiful, damn it.
Her breathing quickens, she arches her back, and she can't stop her knees, which now clamp against the sides of my head, on my temples. She comes on my mouth but doesn't scream my name.
We need to work on that.
I pull away slowly, stand up, and look at her.
Her eyes are half-closed, her dress hiked up on her hips.
“We can call it a day now, Angel. Think of me when I’m gone.” I smile, satisfied.
I lick my lips and head for the door.
She grunts something, but I can't quite make it out. I’m already out of her office, trying to put as much distance as possible between myself and the still-pulsing desire to screw her until we both have trouble walking.